


crowning glory

by Quilly



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, just a quiet morning between husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 14:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: In the sun, Crowley's hair has threads of gold.





	crowning glory

**Author's Note:**

> An ode to Crowley's long hair, which is The Best Possible Look. Just some soft morning snuggles, nothing too fancy.

There were strands of gold in Crowley’s crimson hair, Aziraphale discovered as sunlight flooded upon them from the window. Crowley was still asleep, his face squashed in the most fetching open-mouthed snore, and Aziraphale was much too in love to find it anything other than endearing. Crowley slept largely nude, and at some point he’d unconsciously kicked the sheets down around his hips, exposing the frankly delicious length of his back to the sun’s rays. Aziraphale had already spent considerable amounts of time (though not nearly enough, in his opinion) mapping that glorious expanse of skin, but it never tired. Crowley was simply too beautiful for Aziraphale’s good.

In response to the neatly-presented temptation, Aziraphale leaned over and planted his lips against Crowley’s shoulder blade, right where the wing joint would be if said wings were present in this dimension. Crowley stirred, his snore cutting off into a snort as he stretched and made other soft morning sounds. He blinked blearily at Aziraphale, who was not at all ashamed of himself and smiled back, and Crowley huffed and collapsed back into his frankly astonishing amount of pillows, groaning.

“Stop that, you’re all bright,” Crowley mumbled.

“Good morning to you, too, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled, kissing Crowley’s shoulder again. Crowley muttered no doubt the direst of threats into the pillows, but his body nudged into the attention. There were no pressing plans for the day, nothing at all keeping Aziraphale’s attention anywhere but in the present moment. He passed his palm from the dip of Crowley’s lower back up through the gentle valley of his spine, reaching up Crowley’s neck and into his hairline as Crowley shuddered and made incoherent, but ultimately pleased, noises at him. Aziraphale stroked his hands through Crowley’s short hair, making it stick up in places as he played with it, and a thought occurred as he moved to the nest that had become the front of Crowley’s hairstyle[1].

“It’s too bad we hadn’t come to this stage of the Arrangement while your hair was long,” Aziraphale said, idly teasing the wilder tangles into shape. Crowley sat up on his elbows, blinking in Aziraphale’s direction and looking a bit more awake.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked, voice somewhere between curious and nervous. Aziraphale smiled.

“Not at all. You look lovely no matter what you choose to do with your hair. Or any part of you, really.” Aziraphale brought his hand around to cup the back of Crowley’s head, pressing his forehead into Crowley’s in what he hoped was an assuring manner. Crowley huffed, sighed, then reached up, fitting his fingers beneath Aziraphale’s. At first Aziraphale thought Crowley was trying to brush him off, but as Crowley gently lifted their hands, Aziraphale saw with a thrill that Crowley’s auburn curls were growing back at such a rate that they were well below his shoulders by the time their fingers combed through the now much longer strands. It was at least as long as it had been in the Elizabethan age, perhaps even Jerusalem, and as beautifully coiled as he remembered. Aziraphale didn’t bother hiding his squeal[2] of delight as Crowley laid back down, his newly-grown hair fanning across his back. Really, now, it was just sinful at this point, with the sun playing off the color and turning it to burnished copper[3].

Aziraphale could hardly believe he was allowed to touch Crowley in the first place, but sifting the deep red curls through his fingers, feeling the silken weight and smoothness of them, twisting one around his knuckle with very little effort—it defied reality itself[4]. Aziraphale’s own hair curled, of course, but his did best when carefully managed in a fluffy halo of ringlets. It would never come close to the elegance of Crowley’s. Nothing about Aziraphale could, frankly, but Aziraphale wasn’t meant to be elegant, not in the same way. It was something they were working on—recognizing their differing strengths and not comparing themselves to each other. Even after six millennia, there were always new facets of their relationship to explore, and Aziraphale adored it.

But back to the matter at hand: bringing a gentle handful of that glorious hair to his face, breathing in the scent and kissing the curls. Crowley gave a sleepy, contented hum.

“If it was a few centuries ago, I’d keep a lock of this in a ring and never take it off,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley turned his head, looking at Aziraphale with soft eyes and a wicked smile.

“How scandalous,” Crowley purred, and Aziraphale leaned in to kiss the smile off his face, if he could; it just seemed to amuse Crowley further. “Mister Fell, please, do consider the affront to my virtue if it was discovered.”

“I’m hardly a libertine, my dear,” Aziraphale chuckled, settling on his side to continue stroking his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Your virtue is perfectly safe with me.”

“Says the angel in my bed,” Crowley smirked, the effect ruined by his half-lidded eyes as Aziraphale turned his attention to Crowley’s scalp. He gave a wordless little whine when Aziraphale’s hand withdrew back to the length of his hair, chasing Aziraphale’s hand and nudging it with his head.

“You’re more cat than snake some days,” Aziraphale smiled. Crowley scowled, but didn’t stop seeking Aziraphale’s touch, shifting closer and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“You’re…horrible,” Crowley mumbled, shoving his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and grasping one of Aziraphale’s hands, putting it back on his head to continue its ministrations in his hair. “Horrible and warm and lovely.”

“Of course, dearest,” Aziraphale hummed, obeying the unspoken command. “How kind of you to say.”

“I’m a very evil demon,” Crowley protested as he tangled his legs with Aziraphale’s, settling further into his chest. “So evil. Not kind at all. My machinations are many and terrible.”

“Absolutely nefarious,” Aziraphale agreed. It seemed a long morning lie-in was in order as Crowley drifted back off to sleep, Aziraphale’s hands slipping through his hair in slow, rhythmic strokes.

Later, when Crowley came to their early afternoon breakfast, his hair was still long, tied up now in a sort of lopsided topknot that was far more charming than it should have been, and he rolled his eyes and huffed and blustered when Aziraphale smiled and told him he looked beautiful.

“Of course I do, angel,” Crowley sniffed, and if Aziraphale caught Crowley twisting a few errant locks free and glancing in his direction with a sort of hopeful glint in his eyes, Aziraphale didn’t comment beyond a warm smile and a lingering gaze.

[1] Gel and hairspray tend to do that to hair, especially when slept in, and perhaps most especially when slept in after fingers have run through it with rather reckless abandon.

[2] Not a squeal, he would protest, but it definitely, definitely was.

[3] But, then, that was rather the point, wasn’t it?

[4] To be fair, so had they, at one point.


End file.
